The Novel Art of Murder

by V. M. Burns

  Praise for V. M. Burns and The Plot Is Murder

  “A promising debut with a satisfying conclusion.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Cozy mystery readers and historical novel aficionados will adore this warm-hearted, cleverly plotted new series.”

  —Kings River Life

  “V. M. Burns is off to a fantastic start.”

  —Escape with Dollycas

  “This debut cleverly integrates a historical cozy within a contemporary mystery. In both story lines, the elder characters shine; they are refreshingly witty and robust, with formidable connections and investigative skills.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  Books by V. M. Burns

  Mystery Bookshop Mysteries

  THE PLOT IS MURDER

  READ HERRING HUNT

  THE NOVEL ART OF MURDER

  Dog Club Mysteries

  IN THE DOG HOUSE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  The Novel Art of Murder

  V. M. BURNS

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Teaser chapter

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by Valerie Burns

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1185-4

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1185-8

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1186-1 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1186-6 (ebook)

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Dawn Dowdle, Blue Ridge Literary Agency, and John Scognamiglio, Michelle Addo, and all of the wonderful people at Kensington.

  Thank you to my Seton Hill University family. Thank you to my tribe and to Kaelyn Harding for braving the unedited edition of this book and for providing excellent feedback. I appreciate all of the support I’ve received from my Whirlpool family. Thank you to Tena, Grace, Jamie, and Deborah—you guys are the best training team. Thank you to Sandy Morrison and my fellow Barnyardians for being so supportive (Lindsey, Jill, Chuck, Stephen, Jamie, and Tim).

  Thank you to Dr. Brittain and all of the wonderful, caring people at Community Animal Hospital in Cleveland, Tennessee. Thank you to my friend Debbie Bennett for allowing me to borrow a few personality quirks. I appreciate all that you have done to promote and support me.

  As always, I have to say thank you to Jacquelyn, Christopher, and Jillian Rucker and Benjamin Burns. Without your prayers, caring, and support, this dream would never have come to pass. Thank you doesn’t even come close to expressing what I owe to Sophia Muckerson and Shelitha Mckee. You two have done so much to help me live my dream and I will be eternally grateful for your brutal honesty and unfailing support.

  Chapter 1

  “What the blazes do you mean I didn’t get the part?” Nana Jo’s face turned beet red and she leapt up from her chair.

  I had never been so happy for a slow morning crowd at the bookstore as I was at that minute. My grandmother was about to blow a gasket and, while it might prove entertaining, I preferred keeping the drama contained to family and friends.

  “Josephine, calm down.” Dorothy Clark was one of my grandmother’s oldest friends, which was probably why she was nominated to break the bad news to her.

  “Don’t tell me to calm down. I am calm. I’m always calm.” Nana Jo pounded the table with her hand. The mugs shook and splashed coffee on the table. “If I want to kick up a ruckus, I’ll kick up a ruckus.” She pounded the table again and then marched over to the counter and grabbed a dishcloth to wipe up the mess.

  Ruby Mae Stevenson, another of Nana Jo’s friends, shook her head and moved her knitting out of the way of the spills. “I told you she wouldn’t take it well.”

  “I’ve had the lead role in the Shady Acres Senior Follies for the past ten years. That role was created specifically for me. I don’t just play the part of Eudora Hooper, retired school marm dreaming about becoming a famous showgirl. I am Eudora Hooper.” Nana Jo wiped up the spilled coffee.

  “I know, and you’ve played the role splendidly.” Dorothy’s face reflected her sincerity.

  Dorothy wasn’t merely humoring my grandmother. Nana Jo’s performance was inspired, and each year she got better and better.

  Nana Jo looked at her three closest friends. “Who got the part?”

  Ruby Mae put her head down and refused to make eye contact.

  Irma Starczewski reached for her mug, but it was empty, so she pulled a flask out of her purse and took a swig.

  Nana Jo put her hands on her hips, narrowed her eyes, and stared at Dorothy.

  For a large woman, almost six feet tall, Dorothy shrank as she stared at Nana Jo. “Maria Romanov.”

  I thought Nana Jo was red before, but the beet red coloring from earlier was nothing compared to the purple red that crept up her neck.

  “Maria Romanov? That two-bit hack’s only acting talent is in her ability to convince people she’s a decent human being.” Nana Jo pounded the table again, rattling the mugs.

  Just as quickly as the anger flared up, it vanished. Nana Jo flopped down in a chair. Nearly as tall as Dorothy, Nana Jo went through a transformation. Instead of the vibrant, active, five-foot-ten, sharpshooting, Aikido-tossing woman I knew and loved, there was a seventy-something, old woman in her place.

  She took a few deep breaths. “If that’s what Horace wants, then I guess I wasn’t as good as I thought I was.”

  “Bull—”

  “Irma!” we shouted.

  Irma coughed and clamped her hand over her mouth. Years of heavy smoking, drinking, and hanging out with truckers, if Nana Jo was to be believed, had left her with a deep cough, a salacious sexual appetite, and a colorful vocabulary.

  I leaned over and gave Nana Jo a hug. “Your performance was amazing and I’m not just saying that because you’re my grandmother.”

  She absentmindedly patted my arm. “Thank you, Sam, but Horace Evans is a top-notch director. He once directed Ethel Merman.”

  “He even won a Tony award. I’ve seen it. He keeps it in his bedroom.” Irma smiled and then broke out in a fit of coughing.

  The fact that Nana Jo didn’t acknowledge Irma’s quip about the location of the award was an indication of her state of mind. “We’ve been fortunate to have someone with his experience and credentials at Shady Acres.”

  “Really?
I didn’t know he had a Tony award. They always run something about the Senior Follies in the newspaper, but they’ve never mentioned it.”

  “He likes to keep it low-key.” Dorothy nodded. “He worked on Broadway for more than twenty years.”

  “How in the world did he end up in Michigan?” I asked.

  “He wanted to be close to his family.” Ruby Mae looked up from her knitting. “I think his son was an engineer for one of the car companies.”

  North Harbor used to have a lot of manufacturing plants that supplied parts for the Detroit automobile industry, but when the economy went south in the seventies, so too did most of the manufacturing jobs.

  “I appreciate the kind words, but Horace is an expert. If he thinks Maria Romanov will make a better Eudora Hooper than me, I’ll just have to accept his decision.”

  We tried to cheer Nana Jo up, but nothing we said had any effect. She smiled and continued to shrink. Only once did she perk up and demonstrate the flash of fire which characterized her personality.

  The door chimed and a customer entered the bookstore.

  Nana Jo rose from her seat. “It’s time to face the music. On opening night, I hope you all break a leg.” She pushed her chair in and headed to the front of the store. “And I hope Maria Romanov breaks her neck.”

  Chapter 2

  Market Street Mysteries was a small bookstore which, as the name implied, specialized in mysteries. It didn’t get a ton of business, not like the big-box bookstores. However, neither North Harbor nor its sister city, South Harbor, had a big-box bookstore. Southwestern Michigan book lovers either traveled forty-five minutes to get their book fix or ordered online. In the months since I retired from teaching English at the local high school, I built up a nice clientele which was enough to keep my dream afloat.

  Weekdays weren’t especially busy, so Nana Jo was well able to handle things while I took a break. When I left, the girls were still trying to convince her to continue with the Senior Follies, even if she took a lesser role, but I knew my grandmother well enough to know they were fighting a losing battle. Losing the lead role had wounded her pride. I needed time to think how I could help her. My stomach growled, so I decided to grab lunch.

  November in North Harbor, Michigan, can be schizophrenic to the uninitiated. One minute it’s warm and sunny. The next minute a biting wind rolled off Lake Michigan, which rattled your teeth and made your skin quiver. Today was, thankfully, sunny and bright. The wind was crisp, so I walked quicker and lingered less as I made my way to North Harbor Café.

  Even after the noon rush, the restaurant was crowded. I looked for a seat and my eye caught the gaze of the proprietor, Frank Patterson, behind the bar. He smiled and my stomach fluttered.

  I hopped on an empty seat at the bar.

  Frank finished mixing drinks and handed them to a waitress. Then he grabbed a pitcher of water from a small fridge, along with a few sliced lemons, which he placed in the pitcher. He grabbed a glass and placed them in front of me.

  He leaned close. “I’m glad you came. I missed you.”

  The warmth of his breath brushed my face and I inhaled his scent. He smelled of a strong herbal Irish soap, red wine, coffee, and bacon. He was surprised that a non-wine drinker like me could tell the difference between red and white wines. My late husband used to say I had a nose like a bloodhound, but I called it a gift. Coffee and bacon were two of my favorite things and my pulse raced.

  “You smell good.”

  Frank grinned. “Let me guess, coffee and bacon?”

  I nodded.

  He joked that he drank so much coffee the aroma seeped through his skin. The bacon was either a figment of my imagination or grease from the kitchen attached to his shoes. Whatever the reason, it was extremely sexy.

  Frank Patterson was in his forties. He cut his salt-and-pepper hair in a way that betrayed his military background. He had soft brown eyes and a lovely smile. “As much as I’d like to believe my manly charm brought you in today, I suspect it’s my BLT.”

  I laughed. “What can I say? A man that can make a good BLT is irresistible.”

  “Whatever it takes to keep you coming back.”

  Heat rose up my neck. I took a sip of my lemon water to try to hide it.

  “One BLT minus the T and a cup of clam chowder?”

  I nodded. I loved how he remembered things like that.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  I tried to suppress a grin, but it wouldn’t be suppressed and I dribbled water down the front of my shirt. Our conversation was lame, but it’d been a long time since I’d flirted. Leon and I had been married for over twenty years when he died. It’d been over a year, but I’d just now opened myself to romance.

  Frank returned carrying a tray with a steaming hot bowl of clam chowder, a BLT which was piled high with bacon, and a rose. He placed the food in front of me, got a tall beer glass from behind the bar and filled it with water and placed the rose in it.

  “Thank you.”

  “That looks delicious.” A large man next to me glanced at my plate and then picked up his menu. “Is that clam chowder? I didn’t see it on the menu.”

  Head down, I crumbled crackers into my chowder.

  “It isn’t on the menu. It’s something I keep in the back for my . . . special friends.” He winked at me.

  My neighbor took a whiff. “It looks and smells wonderful.” He looked at me. “You’re a lucky lady.”

  I smiled and shoved a spoonful of soup into my mouth.

  Frank pretended not to notice the heat that came up my neck, but I could tell by the look in his eyes that he had seen the redness. “There may be enough for one more bowl. Would you like to try it?”

  He nodded eagerly. “If you have enough, that would be great. I love clam chowder.”

  Frank headed off to get another bowl of soup.

  I didn’t have time to practice flirting. The restaurant was busy, and I felt guilty taking up a seat. So, I finished eating, waved goodbye, and left.

  The rest of the afternoon was uneventful. Nana Jo got rid of the girls and we worked in relative silence until closing. I’d hoped we could talk but she stayed busy and unapproachable until I locked the front door. When we were done cleaning, she announced she had a date and hurried upstairs to change.

  My assistant and tenant, Dawson Alexander, was out of town for an away football game. When Nana Jo left, I was alone in my upstairs loft, except for my two poodles, Snickers and Oreo. It was peaceful. Although I was alone, I didn’t feel lonely. At some point, Frank had left a large container of chili in my refrigerator, which I heated up for dinner. There was also a platter with lemon cream cheese bars on my kitchen counter. Besides being a great quarterback for the MISU Tigers, Dawson was an amazing baker. His small studio apartment over my garage didn’t have a large stove, so he often baked in my kitchen. I placed two of the lemon bars on a plate and poured a cup of Earl Grey tea. The two men in my life, Frank and Dawson, kept me well fed.

  Frank cooked when he wanted to relax, and Dawson baked. I wrote. Opening a mystery bookstore was a dream my husband, Leon, and I had shared. We both loved mysteries, and a bookstore specializing in mysteries seemed ideal. However, my dreams extended beyond selling mysteries to writing them. I kept that dream hidden, out of fear and insecurity, from all but Leon, my sister, Jenna, and my grandmother. After Leon died, I filled the lonely nights by writing a British historic cozy mystery. When Nana Jo sent my manuscript to a literary agent in New York, the dream moved from a hazy wisp of smoke and fairy dust into a solid reality in the form of a contract for representation. I was both thrilled and terrified at the same time. Even though, the thought of people I didn’t know reading my book sent a cold chill down my spine. I sat down at my laptop with my lemon bars and tea and realized the thrill was greater than the terror. I started writing.

  Chartwell House, Country estate of

  Winston Churchill—Drawing Room—November 1938

  Lady Elizabeth Marsh s
at on the sofa in the comfortable sunlit drawing room. Despite the sunshine streaming through the windows, there was a nip in the air. She was grateful for the warmth from the large fireplace and extended her legs to enjoy more of its heat.

  “Elizabeth dear, would you care for a cardigan?” Clementine Churchill rose from her seat.

  “No. I’m fine, really. I’ve thawed out now.”

  Mrs. Churchill sat back down. “I don’t know what Winston was thinking, dragging you out in the cold to show you his brick wall.” She tsked.

  “He was very proud of his masonry skills.” Lady Daphne stroked the large yellow tabby, which jumped on her lap the moment she sat down.

  “You’ll have cat hair all over your skirt. Tango, get down,” Mrs. Churchill ordered.

  Tango looked up at the sound of his name but apparently decided the order was an empty threat and ignored it.

  “Stubborn cat. Let me take him.” Mrs. Churchill rose.

  “It’s okay, Aunt Clemmie. I rather like him.” Daphne smiled. “A little cat hair won’t matter. Besides, he gives me courage.”

  Clementine Churchill was only a distant cousin to the Marshes but had always been “Aunt Clemmie” to Daphne and her sister, Penelope Marsh. She settled back onto her seat and looked fondly at her adopted niece. “You don’t need courage. I’m sure Lady Alistair will love you as much as we do.”

  Lady Elizabeth pulled a ball of yarn from her knitting bag. “What’s not to love? You’re intelligent and beautiful, and you come from an excellent family.”

  “I wish I could feel sure. James seems so nervous about me meeting her that it’s got me frazzled.”